


pieces,

by nanchatte



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Multi, will add more pairings as i go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1846624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanchatte/pseuds/nanchatte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of drabbles created for the HSWC 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. build a prison, stay there

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: Remember that time when Dave arrived at Princess Pyrope's high tower only to find she wasn't so keen on being rescued and actually preferred chilling with her dragons? Remember when Dave instead hung out with her and befriended Pyralspite and Lemonsnout and fell deeply in love with her, legal jargon and all?

You probably should have expected this, all things considered. After all, you like irony.

Perhaps you could have dealt with the a dragon, if there had only been one— the yellow one (Lemonsnout, you recall) was a wily beast with gem-like eyes and it was small and lithe and tricky. The white one was bigger, stronger, meaner but instead of snapping you up like a prime steak after Lemonsnout had successfully disarmed you, smashing your sword against the tower wall and snapping it jaggedly in half, Pyralspite had regarded you with some sort of intense, reptillian expression of camaraderie and Terezi said, high on the winding staircase, “Hehe, I think he likes you!”

The Princess wasn’t what you were expecting either; it’s not like many people— even esteemed knights because shit, you’re a Strider— glimpse royalty in their lives. But Terezi was a smallish, scrawny girl with a strangely endearing rat-like face and her nose would always be twitching under thick tinted shades as she stared down at the scene below: a weaponless knight facing off against two large, dangerous beasts who had, allegedly, kidnapped the Princess.

Your trial only lasted about an hour. Due to the nature of your crime (attempted murder, you were told) you were deemed dastardly enough to be undeserving of an attorney, and instead defended yourself. You’ve always been good with words, though, and eventually your witty back-and-forth banter had won you enough gleeful cackling from the Princess that she only sentenced you to imprisonment for life, instead of the death sentence, like all the other knights whose skulls littered the bottom of the tower.

Tower life, surprisingly, wasn’t that bad. You soon learned why Terezi was loathe to leave, because in this tall, spiralling turret there were no obligations, no responsibilities and every rule was of Terezi’s own invention. Terezi liked rules and regulations, so long as she could lord over them, and you were quite content to follow them religiously. You didn’t want Lemonsnout to crush you beneath his fangs like crackling, after all.

Pyralspite was less intimidating, despite his size and despite Terezi’s proclamations that he was a champion of justice, and you were still a felon. Pyralspite didn’t seem to mind that you’d been charged for attempted murder, because his great white snout would run over your armour, his breath steaming up the dirty metal, and one large, ruby eye would peer into the slits of your visor, searching for something.

One night— you don’t even know how many nights its been, how many nights you’ve watched come and go in here— you sit with Terezi at the top of the tower. The place is dusty, unkempt and fetid, but Terezi and you perch on her chalky four-poster bed and she hooks her fingers like dragon-claws under where your helmet meets your gorget and she drawls, sarcastically, “You may remove your helmet, Sir Knight.”

You nod. She pulls upwards, and over and you suddenly feel like this is all very real, that you kind of belong in this weird tower with this weird Princess and her shitty laws and her shitty dragons and you blink out the unfamiliarity from your eyes. The world looks different without your helm.

Terezi leans in close, her nose settling just underneath your eyes and she breathes in, long and rattling and you can feel her grin against your cheek. 

“Red,” she says, finally. “My favourite colour.”


	2. jake english, unwilling champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prompt: Hogwarts AU: Dirk puts Jake's name in the Goblet of Fire to aid Jake's personal development

It seems like the whole of the goddamn school is gathered around this thing— and to be honest, you’re pretty damn disappointed. All it is some dumb goblet just standing there and hell, there’s really no excitement to be had by the thing because most students have enough sense to _not_ put their name in. Didn’t some Hufflepuff die a couple years back because of it? Yeah, no thanks to an early grave in the name of some sick European school unity bullshit.

You turn to Jake by your side— this is totally up the Gryffindor’s alley. He’s all gung-ho about adventure and you’re kind of a little surprised that he hasn’t already tried to put his name in twice. Instead, he stands there examining his fingernails, as if purposely trying to avoid looking at the goblet.

“You’re not gonna put your name in?” you ask, gesturing towards the offending instrument.

Jake, you notice, looks incredibly sheepish. “Uh, well— no, I suppose! You know, NEWTs!”

It hits you just then that Jake, like the rest of Hogwarts, is quite content to have nothing to do with the Triwizard Tournament. You know for a fact that Jake isn’t worried about NEWTs, but he _is_ worried about being eaten alive by dragons or accidentally hexed for life by some particularly violent Durmstrang student. You feel your eyebrow raise.

“Huh, I thought you’d be all over this. Honourable, magical fisticuffs and shit.”

Jake shrugs, and his ears turn a little pink. “Come on,” he says, ushering you away, “We’ve got a Potions class to get to!”

-

You and Roxy sit in the library, trying to do homework. The Ravenclaw is blathering loudly about the upcoming competition while expertly ignoring the glares sent her way by an irritated librarian.

“You know that, like, Ampora’s put his name in? _Ampora_. If he gets it I’m totes drowning myself in the lake. Or him.”

This is the first you’ve heard of anyone entering. You say, “Well, at least it’s character building.”

You’re then, quite fucking gobsmacked by your statement. _Character building_. If there’s one person who needs a kick up the ass in the character department, it’s definitely Cronus but you can think of someone else who might benefit from three gruelling magical trials risking life and limb.

You’re distantly aware of Roxy talking, but you’ve zoned her out in favour of developing a plan on how, exactly, you’re going to get Jake English’s name into the Goblet of Fire without earning yourself detentions for the rest of the year.

“Yo, Strider, are you even listening to me?”

Roxy gives you a weird, suspecting look, as if she might have heard the cogs of your mind working and become thoroughly curious about it.

-

When Jake’s name is called as a Hogwarts champion, he seems to bask in the uncertain claps that echo in the Great Hall before becoming acutely aware that yes, that was _his_ name.

“Wait, Dirk,” he says quickly, “I didn’t put my name in!”

“That’s impossible,” you say around a mouthful of cauldron cake.

“No, really, Dirk, some scoundrel put my name in of his own accord!”

“What a douchebag,” you reply, deadpan, reaching for another cake just as Jake is dragged away by the excited Charms professor, looking like he might burst into tears.

-

Part of you is distinctly worried that maybe your meddling wasn’t actually such a great idea— which is oddly insulting, because up until now you’ve always been under the impression that every idea you have is fucking brilliant.

The thing is, the reason the majority of the school didn’t enter themselves into this lame competition was because of the high risk factor, and Jake _is_ your boyfriend. If he has to battle a giant and gets his head knocked in, that’s a sad farewell to impromptu macking sessions in broom closets.

Still, Jake has one incredibly worthwhile asset that none of the other students have, and that asset is you. With you in his arsenal, there’s no way he’s going to go to a trial unprepared.

“You ready for tomorrow, Jake?” you ask over dinner.

Jake blanches and quickly runs out of the Great Hall, probably to deposit the contents of his stomach into the lavatory for the fifth time that evening. You watch him leave, grinning.

-

“We can only hope,” says Jane, sitting in the stand and proudly wearing an ‘ENGLISH FOR ENGLAND’ badge on her cloak, “That he’s knocked out early and sent to the hospital wing.”

Roxy agrees with, “It’s not even about Hogwarts winning anymore. It’s the keep-Jakey-alive club all up in here.”

The three of you watch as your familiar Quidditch pitch is turned into one giant mound— a mountain of epic proportions— that stretches high into the crisp autumn sky. A voice on enchanted loudspeaker claims that each witch and wizard has to climb the volcano ( _fuck_ ) before it erupts and collect a key each.

“Oh, that sounds easy,” Jane grins. “Besides, Jake’s totally used to outdoor activities.”

You and Roxy both share a glance; a mutual understanding that this is probably no simple volcano. Sure enough, you watch Jake attempt to fly up there with magic and promptly be taken out of the sky by an angry Hippogriff.

The crowd grimaces in unison.

-

Jake managed to get his key about twenty minutes after both Durmstrang and Beaxbatons secured theirs. You and your friends visit him in the hospital wing, where he clutches his prize to his chest with his face covered in bandages and some weird, gloopy concoction all over where his right leg had been blasted by some acid-spitting plant.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Jake tries to say, but he’s missing a few teeth so he ends up spraying you all with spit as he excitedly retells the story of his heroic journey up the volcano.

You hold his hand and don’t bother to remind him that you saw the whole thing and thus know that the Blast-Ended Skrewt was not twenty-foot long, and it was a runtish ogre who broke his left arm, not a hulking mountain troll.

-

The next trial is supposedly in a secret location that the key apparently unlocks somewhere in the castle. While Jake panics over this problem-solving exercise you take it upon yourself to use your free time wisely: you search Hogwarts front-to-back for this mysterious door.

You’re approached by the chosen Durmstrang student one day and he says in a thick accent, “You want to know where the door is?”

“I’m not the champion,” you say, suspiciously, because there’s no way you’re trusting these Eastern European bastards when they might be conspiring for your boyfriend’s untimely doom. Not that he’s much of a threat in the competition, keeping it real.

The boy gives you a _look_ , and grudgingly you decide to follow him down to the dungeons through a maze of grimy corridors until finally you’re looking at what has to be the second task’s next location.

The Durmstrang champion whacks you amiably on the back and says, “Good luck.”

-

The rest of the school meets in the Great Hall to watch the magic ceiling which has now been enchanted to show Jake’s progression through a series of rooms, where he’s yet again after keys. Most of the tasks involve using the correct spells to break through barriers, and Jake isn’t doing too terribly until about halfway through, where he blasts a wall with an enthusiastic _reducto_ and is then sent flying backwards, cracking his head and falling unconscious.

Unfortunately all rooms are booby-trapped so you, Roxy and Jane watch in horror as the walls start to move inwards like in some shitty adventure movie and Jake just snoozes peacefully on the floor. When he comes to there’s about an inch until he’s crushed but, thankfully, the time’s run out and the commentator loudly proclaims that Hogwarts earned a hearty two points.

No one is particularly surprised.

-

“I’m just not cut out for this malarkey, Dirk,” says Jake miserably, feeding his owl leftover crackers from this morning’s breakfast.

“Don’t be stupid,” you say, even though it’s probably the most correct statement ever to be uttered out of Jake’s mouth, “You love all this adventurous shit.”

“I don’t even know why it picked me,” he continues desperately.

“I think it was between you and Ampora,” you admit, and Jake just groans loudly.

-

The last trial is pretty much pointless because unless Jake conjures up some sort of miracle, Hogwarts has no chance of winning. School pride seems to have abandoned the castle and so you don’t really know anyone who cares about the outcome of the tournament except the foreigners.

Jake cares, you guess, because this is his last chance prove he is, in his words, ‘a strapping young exemplar in a test of wits and bravery’. You tell him, robotically, that he doesn’t need to prove anything.

But Jake’s adamant. He arranges late night fisticuffs with you where he bombards you with dodgy curses and hexes he’s learned all the while bouncing off ideas on what, exactly, the next task could be. You mention dragons and his voice shakes so much on one particular hex that you can’t talk for a whole week without your teeth falling out and growing back within two minutes every time you try to say something.

Despite Jake’s rampant apologies, you moodily refuse to regret entering him unwillingly into a dangerous contest as you watch your teeth clatter onto your open textbook for the fiftieth time that day.

-

By the time the final task comes around, everyone wants the Triwizard Tournament over and done with.

To everyone’s surprise, when Jake puts his mind on something, he doesn’t actually royally fuck up. It also helps that the trial is a free-for-all in a giant arena where the three wizards have to duel it out alongside a variety of dangerous terrain and weather conditions and when a sandstorm finally lets up enough for the audience to see, you notice with a hint of pride that neither opposing student has any of his or her teeth.

Jake’s finally rendered useless by a well-thrown _steleus_ and while he indulged in a fit of sneezing he was then hit with a _stupefy_.

You think to yourself it was a rather anti-climactic end to a rather anti-climactic character development experiment.

-

“Don’t be too hard on yourself Jake,” Jane gives a him a pat on the back. “You did your best.”

You have all treated Jake to a butterbeer or two at the Three Broomsticks. He takes a swig from his tankard and ignores the mustache of foam that’s formed there. You stare at it and desperately want to lick it off.

“And no more Triwizard tournaments for another decade or so,” Jake grins. “I took one for the team, really.”

“ _You_ did?” you ask, as Jake finally rubs around his mouth.

He replies, “Well, I was thinking maybe I just up and forgot about entering. How else did my name get in there, after all?”

“Like, _how_ ,” says Roxy, sending you a very pointed expression.

“I don’t suspect such an upstanding fellow like my good pal Dirk Strider,” Jake continues, cracking his knuckles, “Would do something so dastardly as to go behind a man’s back…”

“Yeah, no shit he wouldn’t.”

Jake’s grin widens. “I thought so.”


	3. by a small whisky town,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prompt: Fairytale AU where Dave and Dirk are capaill uisce and Jake and Jade are siblings that live alone on the coastline.

The little town was famous for whisky— a distillery sat on its craggy harbour, overlooking the ocean so when Jake returned one night rambling about the creatures he saw with the coming of the tide, Jade blamed it on alcohol.

She lounged on the beach, crossed-legged and nimble fingers working sea-rough rope into nets for fishing. Jake, whose new job demanded most of his concentration and physical labour was beginning to forget the sea for a different kind of water; transparent, pure, the particular poison of an upcoming nation. Maybe, Jade thought, Jake’s hallucinations were a sort of homesickness for the sea he grew up on, their little wooden boat that rocked on green waves as they cast their nets into the depths.

The industry was now ruled by towering barges and older men singing hearty shanties with nets far more sturdy than anything Jade could ever make. The work at the distillery was, unfortunately, necessary.

“I’m telling you, Jade,” said Jake, scrubbing at the stubble growing on his jaw as he flopped down next to her. “They’re real. Horses that live in the ocean! _Cracking_!”

Jade sighed. She liked fairytales as much as the next lonely coastline girl, but Jake was ridiculous at times. His head was constantly in the clouds— leagues from Oban and distilleries and far, far away in lands she could only dream of.

She sighed. “Okay, so maybe there are horses in the ocean, Jake. But what do they eat?”

Jake stopped scratching and frowned. Jade could almost hear the machines in his head clanking away, like the tinkling and tinkering of whisky.

“Don’t worry, Jade,” he grinned, “I’ll find out for you.”

-

Jake was increasingly late in coming home. Jade didn’t worry; after all, she was more than capable of handling herself in their little wooden shack on the beach. She didn’t need her brother’s strength or skills, but she did need his company. Isolated as the two siblings were, Jake had always been by her side. Suddenly he wasn’t, and the cut was deep and burning.

Jade didn’t blame the whisky. She blamed the magical creatures in the ocean that Jake obsessed over to worrying degrees. Sometimes, while her brother was at work, she would traipse into town to trade nets or woven furniture for a farmer’s load and she’d hear Oban’s limited gossip: English has gone mad. He’s a raving lunatic, they’d say.

Jade overheard, “Nay, Smith, hear me out. English isnae starkin’, them ponies are real, a’right. Ye clamber on their backsies and off ye go tae the sea never tae return.”

There was an eerie silence that followed that statement. Jade felt her skin crawl and then suddenly the small babble burst into raucous laughter and her cheeks blossomed red. Stupid. Those stories were stupid.

-

“Jake,” said Jade one evening, stirring fish stew over their makeshift fire, “You should stop looking for the ocean horses.”

Jake, who had been staring off into space, his green eyes in the distant corners of his mind, started. “I thought you wanted to know what they ate.”

“Maybe they eat people,” Jade said, over the crackling of embers, sucking in her cheeks. “Maybe they lure daft boys like you into the sea and gobble you up.”

Jake shrugged. “Horses are herbivores, Jade.”

“Horses don’t live in the _sea_ , Jake.”

-

The summer months sent the coast a swell of welcome heat and cool sea breeze. Jade continued to make nets, but no one seemed to be buying any more. Jake settled into a routine; he would wake up early to walk the distance to town and come back as late as midnight, only to stare wistfully at the ocean. If Jade hadn’t known any better, she would have called him a man in love.

On a particularly hot June night, however, Jake didn’t return.

Jade wasn’t worried; it was only one hour past midnight and she imagined Jake’s new pattern would extend until he came home at dawn only to miss out on sleeping completely. She slept soundly, and dreamed about small fishing boats and a sea of whisky.

Jake didn’t return for another day. And another.

Jade ran to the distillery, only to discover that Jake hadn’t been at work for three days. A hearty man with breath stinking of alcohol ruffled her hair and joked about him sailing out to find strange sea creatures and Jade felt her heart thunder in her chest, her stomach lurch. Horrible images of man-eating kelpies flooded her imagination, staining the ocean red with her brother’s blood.

-

Jade walked along the coast that night, her skirts bunched up and her bare feet treading the foam. She felt silly when she sucked in as much air as possible and then hollered, as loud as she could, “Jake! Jake!”

The only reply was the tide against the sand, a silent chuckle from the ocean itself.

-

Jade let her skirts trail in the saltwater, dragging her down as the next day she clambered further into the ocean. The waves crashed against her torso, pushing and pulling her but she refused to be defeated. The sea— or some unknown beasts in the sea— had taken her brother, and she was determined to get him back.

She yelled every profanity she could remember learning from sailors. She splashed and shouted and sobbed until she tired herself out and just rolled with the ocean’s rhythm— and that’s when she heard it. A distant thunder, like hooves against sand.

The two of them appeared out of nowhere, as if they had been born of the sea’s foam itself. Both had pale, milky skin and hair so blond it was almost white. Their eyes glittered like gemstones; amber and ruby.

Jade, fatigued, begged, “Give me back Jake.”

The larger one— the more intimidating, orange-eyed one— said, “No.”

-

Jade saw them almost every day after that: two beautiful white horses materialised from sea foam. No matter how hard she rubbed her eyes, or tried to ignore them, they were now a constant in her life and Jake was still undiscovered.

Jade didn’t want to talk to them. She didn’t even want to look at them. As curious and enchanted as they were, Jade wished she didn’t have to believe in them. She wished that maybe Jake had gotten lost on the road somewhere and that he would come back any day now, raving about the beasties he’d seen in inland forests, or the castle estates he’d spied hitching a ride on a baron’s carriage.

She sat on the beach, making nets. Her fingers worked without much concentration; thirteen years of this had left it almost second nature.

The red-eyed boy approached, his footsteps leaving hoofprints in the sand.

“You’re not real,” said Jade, sticking out her tongue as she slipped up on a stubborn knot.

“Wow, rude,” he replied nonchalantly. “And I was going to tell you what happened to your brother, too.”

“He’s in some fancy estate. He slipped on a rock on his way home, twisted his ankle and was rescued by a kind lord.”

The boy rolled his eyes and tossed his head. “Yeah, whatever.”

“You don’t have to believe me,” Jade said stubbornly, “Just like I don’t have to believe you.”

The beast sat down beside her. He looked to be about her age, but there was an immortality about him that unnerved her. He was a creature made of the intrigue of the depths of the ocean and she was just a girl.

“Don’t humans sink in water,” he continued, in that blasé voice of his, “Like ships and anchors and shit?”

Jade shoved him then, as hard as she could. He merely laughed lightly as she stalked off, dragging her half-finished net in the sand behind her.

-

Jade spent her days in the company of her red-eyed hassler, fishing on her wooden boat and blistering her fingers on nets. Without Jake’s income, life was hard, but she was surviving. Jake’s absence was unbearable, but she was never really alone. The ocean horses still followed the tide in and out, as if waiting for her to just decide to go with them one day.

She was sure that if she took their hand, or mounted their backs, she would drown. They were beasts, faerie-folk, a dangerous figment of her imagination. The more she thought about this, the more her story about Jake and the estate and the kind lord seemed ridiculous and childish. She just didn’t want to think about the alternative.

The red-eyed monster lay on his back, floating on the still water as Jade sat and waited for her net to strain. He broke the silence with a sudden, “Hey, Jade, don’t you want to know how Jake’s doing?”

“No,” she lied through gritted teeth.

“Shit, Jade, that’s cold. He’s your _brother_.”

“He’s fine,” she said, “And he’s not under the stupid water with your stupid brother, that’s for sure.”

The creature smirked. “I could take you to him if you like.”

Jade liked to ignore them. She had discovered that this particular beast didn’t like to be ignored— he was arrogant and talkative and a wise-cracker and as she suspected, the lack of attention made him louder, more aggressive.

“You’re right, he’s fine, I guess. A little pruney, but what do you expect with your weird skin? And he’s pretty embarrassing, says some weird shit, but hey, you probably know all about that. My bro thinks its cute. _That’s_ embarrassing.”

Jade lay down on the boat, stared up at the clouds billowing in the sky.

“My world is sick,” the monster continued, out of sight. “You seriously never wondered what’s under the surface?”

Jade closed her eyes. The clouds swirled away and were replaced with colourful fish, strange pink and yellow rocks, people with the tails of sea-trout, a stampede of perfectly white horses conjuring a whirl of sand on the ocean floor… and her brother amidst it all, ecstatic.

-

It was the end of summer. As usual, the weather was rainy and gloomy, painting the sand and sea grey. The red-eyed horse stood in the foam and Jade clambered on his sleek, wet back.

He thundered into the sea and Jade could taste salt on her lips, her hair sticking to her face as the creature ran further in and then, suddenly, _under_ and she descended with the water suffocating her, making her ears thrum and burst, her eyes sting with the pressure.

The ocean was black, she found, dark and cold. But with her fingers tangled in the beast’s mane, her chest flush against his neck, it wasn’t so bad.


	4. how to kill a man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT: That AU where Bro is an immortal guy who enjoys being killed, and Rose is the serial killer who's starting to grow tired of his persistence.

It had been your very first slip up ever— to be honest, you were rather ashamed of yourself. It didn’t help that the witness was bigger than you; all brawn and broad shoulders, large bony hands and his face mostly covered in equal parts by ridiculous scalene shades and a tattered baseball cap.

“Well, this is awkward,” you tell him, letting your previous victim fall messily to the ground.

He doesn’t say anything. In the slight streetlight you can tell he’s got this stupid, insufferable smirk twitching his lips. You’re surprised he’s not escaping— he could easily outrun you, you with your short limbs and your conspicuous blood-splattered clothing.

You make a start forwards, testing him. He doesn’t move, so you get closer, invading his personal space. He smells like cheap aftershave, like a teenage boy in a man’s body. You grab his shirt and in return he grasps your wrist and you feel like your bones might crack under his strong grip.

You can’t exactly let him live. He did just witness you kill a man in cold blood, after all. The fact that he intrigues you— that he’s so painfully blasé in front of a stone-cold killer— is something that you’re just going to have to live without.

Your needle slips into his neck and his legs buckle.

-

It only makes sense to steal the wallets of all of your victims; dead men don’t need money, after all.

You’re at a boutique, and you finally have enough money to actually consider buying all these expensive black numbers. It’s an investment, really, seeing as you have to lure unsuspecting targets out _somehow_ and nothing does the job quite as well as a figure-hugging dress.

You’re about to pay with the wad of cash you found in that poor cap-toting sucker’s wallet when a familiar hand is around your wrist and a southern accent drawls behind you, “Thanks, I was lookin’ for that.”

You smile apologetically at the cashier, who looks as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. You turn around and there he is: this man you’d stabbed only yesterday, actually _breathing_. You try to keep cool. “Honey, please,” you say, laying on the sweetness thick. “Let’s talk somewhere else, okay?”

He leads you outside, to the abandoned smoking area, and he snatches the wallet from your fingers.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” you snarl, incredibly unnerved.

“Oops,” he replies with a shrug.

“Give that back.” You motion towards the wallet. “You’re a highly unnatural anomaly and I’m sure you can make a lot of money demonstrating your talents to a… shall we say, _wider_ audience.”

The man stuffs his money into his back pocket dismissively. “Nah,” he purrs, “Stage fright.”

You glare at him. He just smirks— in fact, the only time you’ve seen him without that irritating smile was when he was bleeding out through a hole in his neck.

“What’re ya gonna do?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest. “Kill me?”

-

You really liked that silk purple blouse you’d been wearing, you lament, throwing it into the nearest trashcan. The man lies in a crumpled heap just around the corner after about two minutes of you trying to drag him into a less observable area.

He awakes (is that even the right word— you wonder— perhaps _resurrects_ would be more suitable) just as you’re undoing his shirt and he grabs your wrist again.

“ _Really_?” he drawls, an eyebrow raising over those absurd shades. “So this is how y’get yer rockers off?”

Okay, so you can admit from this angle your undressing looks a little questionable. You resist the urge to hide your chest from him. “I need a shirt,” you say, as calmly as possible, “You bled all over mine. I’d like compensation, as well.”

“ _You_ killed _me_.”

You scoff. “Oh please, it’s obvious you have some deranged death fetish. I was doing you a favour.”

The man doesn’t deny anything. You succeed in taking his shirt from him and you shrug it on and it’s highly unfashionable and goes down to your knees. You try not to notice how physically appealing this immortal ruffian’s torso is.

“So,” he says, “Have ya ever thought about more imaginative ways to off people?”

-

You thought if you returned his shirt and stopped taking his money, he might leave you alone. You’re a psychopath and you’re not in the business of mercy-kills. Unfortunately, the man seems to have taken a liking to you— or rather, your murderous habits— and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

You think you’ve killed him about fourteen times now. You took him up on the offer of practicing a less subtle way to take human lives and it had been quite thrilling. You remember cleaving his head off his neck with his samurai sword, drowning him in the bathtub, cutting his heart out and it’d been _intense_ , having his still beating organ dripping in your fingers as he bled out beneath you.

Fourteen times, however, is enough times to kill one man. And it’s significantly less productive when he’s continuously coming back to life, and bothering you adamantly for yet again one more knife in his gut.

-

You take him out for coffee because you need to end this. You’ve laced his cappucino with slow-acting poison as a sick sort of farewell present and it’s always more exciting watching him die when he _doesn’t_ know he’s about to bite the dust.

“While this has all been really quite—“ you struggle to find the right word and settle on, “—stimulating, I think I preferred my victims dead.”

Bro leans back, licks his lips. “I was expectin' this sooner.”

“What,” you say, over your americano.

“See, Rose,” and it’s kind of unsettling that he knows your name but you’d had to give him _something_ to scream out when you’d stopped killing him long enough to try other illicit activities. “There’s only one guy in the world who knows who killed that damn politician, huh, what was his name… yeah, well, whatever. And that guy— the only one who knows— he can’t, y’know, die.”

You feel your face turn into something unsavoury. “You’re actually blackmailing me,” you snarl. “You unrefined cur.”

His smirk deepens. “You put poison in the coffee, didn’t ya?”

“A painless agent, although now I wish I’d used something a bit more sinister.” You sigh melodramatically. “Oh well, next time.”

Bro froths at the mouth and convulses over your table and you get to your feet and screech wildly in feigned terror and then use the confusion to make your escape. He’ll find you, you suppose, eventually, but you’ve always wanted a vacation to New Orleans and you managed to swipe his wallet on the way out.


	5. a good year,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE PROMPT: A ragtag group of teens- with nothing in common aside from the fact that they're all relative outcasts at their school- start a Garage Band.

“Come on,” Cronus begs. “I need the extracurriculars.”

You think about that for a moment. It would be awfully cruel of you to reject him when his credit could be resting on… a garage… band? Oh wait, hell no. You’re _so_ not falling for this. “Can’t you like, pick up trash or something?” you try.

Cronus gives you such a loathsome expression you feel yourself bristle. You continue with, “Besides, I haven’t played in years. It was in my, um…” You feel your face heat up. “My punk rock wannabe stage.”

Okay, so you still have the mohawk from that punk rock wannabe stage too, but you remember Vriska Serket saying it looked cute and even though you’re pretty sure she was being sarcastic… well. You run a hand through it. It _does_ look cute.

“Tav,” Cronus starts, getting all up in your personal space and throwing a big arm around you. “Dontcha remember how that used to feel? When you wanted to play in a band?”

You kind of don’t like how close he is. You and he are _not_ friends and just because neither of you actually has any friends to speak of doesn’t give him best-buddy-touchy-feely rights. “Uh, well, I… I guess so.”

“And you’ve still kept the drumkit?”

“Well, uh… yeah.”

“So what’s the problem?”

The problem is… okay, so maybe there’s no real cons to starting a band other than spending time with Cronus who admittedly isn’t actually that bad. There could be worse things, like trying to avoid those morons after school who keep threatening to spray paint your wheelchair pink. Maybe with Cronus by your side, you won’t be such an easy target.

“Well, what do you play?” you ask, and Cronus’ face lights up and oh hell, he knows he’s got you now.

“Guitar. And I sing. We need a bassist.”

You don’t know anyone who plays the bass. You frown.

“Don’t worry,” Cronus says, whacking you amiably on the back, and you don’t like his conspiratory tone. “I’ve got someone in mind.”

-

The two of you approach Dirk in the tech lab, where he’s doing some awkward alterations to a way too humanoid robot. You’re pretty sure he’s not deaf and has totally heard the two of you come in but he doesn’t even lift his head in acknowledgement. You feel your hands start to sweat.

“So Strider,” you watch Cronus slam his fists down on the table, jostling a bunch of nuts and bolts. Dirk looks up then, an eyebrow raised. “I hear you play bass.”

Dirk shrugs. “Yeah?”

“Well, funny that. Me and Tav here,” he lunges forward and wheels you closer and you have to swallow audibly just to get some moisture into your dry throat, “We need a bassist. For our band.”

“Your band,” Dirk repeats, deadpan.

“Yeah. Our band.”

Dirk goes back to fiddling with his invention, silent and expressionless as usual. You feel a little uncomfortable, just sitting there watching him, waiting for an answer that probably isn’t going to come. He could have at least refused verbally, but Cronus isn’t taking no for an answer.

“So whadya say?” he forces, and you resist the urge to put your head in your hands and _groan_.

“Yeah sure,” Dirk says.

“What?” You’re fairly certain that was both you and Cronus’ voice in unison, disbelieving. That was way too easy. You were almost positive that _Dirk Strider_ wouldn’t waste his precious, enigmatic time on some crummy garage band.

“I said sure,” Dirk gives you both a wavering stare. “But I’ve got robotics club on Thursdays.”

“Aw man,” Cronus grins. “You won’t regret this. Girls _love_ musicians.”

You know that if Cronus was less self-centred and more observant, he like the rest of the school probably would have figured out that Dirk wasn’t particularly interested in girls. Nevertheless, your head is swimming with this crazy idea that you and two near-strangers are about to start a band, and suddenly you can’t wait for the last bell to ring and for you to get on your dusty old drumkit again.

-

Dirk is great at bass. Cronus’ singing voice isn’t exactly the best (contrary to his personal belief) but he plays guitar well. You, on the over hand…

“I thought you said you could play,” Cronus snaps, after your fifth fuck-up. You sigh, because you haven’t touched the damn drums in years and besides, Cronus’ own composed songs are a little difficult to follow.

“I _told_ you,” you snarl, “I got the drumkit when I was like, thirteen!”

“That gave you three years to practice, dumbass!”

“Whatever,” Dirk’s always fairly silent until the two of you start bickering. “Let’s just keep practicing.”

You always kind of feel like Dirk always has to have the last word, which irritates you somewhat. Cronus rolls his eyes but begins to lash at his electric guitar again, and soon enough the three of you are playing well into the evening, until you hear your angry neighbours rattle the garage door with threats of calling the cops.

-

You start to meet Cronus and Dirk almost every day after school, like some sort of unspoken rule. You’ve even started to let them push you home instead of wheeling yourself, although Cronus muttered indignantly that the only reason you’re halfway decent at drums now is because of your incredible upper-arm strength.

Your band doesn’t have a name, but none of you have exactly decided you need one yet. The neighbours stop complaining so much, probably because the three of you have actually improved and become a somewhat good band, and sometimes even your brother comes down to listen. You begin to feel a little more _cool_ , almost, when in class people sometimes talk to you and say, ‘hey, Nitram, you play the drums, right?’.

“Uhh, yeah,” you reply, and you wonder if Vriska is overhearing in your home economics class. “I guess I do.”

-

It’s late night, and you’ve stopped playing because Cronus had a ‘surprise’ for you which was actually a six pack of Budweiser. Dirk tinkers silently with some weird device while Cronus swigs beer like a pro and you hesitantly sip at your very first taste of alcohol.

“So, you got a girlfriend yet?” Cronus asks. Cronus, you’ve discovered, is kind of obsessed with romantic relationships.

“Um,” you start, but the guy’s interrupting you.

“Strider, how ‘bout you? Come on, you’re always hanging around that Crocker chick. You _have_ to have gotten laid.”

Dirk shrugs. “Jane’s just a friend.”

“Shit, we’re friends, right? You can fuckin’ tell me, man! What about the infamous Rolal?”

“She’s just a friend too.”

You watch Cronus dig his elbow into Dirk’s ribs. “Okay, if you’re not tapping that ass, then _I_ will. Introduce me, okay?”

Dirk’s sour face makes you well aware that there is no way in hell he is going to hitch Roxy up with Cronus, a sentiment you can totally get behind. You kind of don’t feel Cronus is mature enough to be in a relationship, and you can’t think of anyone you hate enough to wish his advances on.

“I like someone,” you suddenly blurt out, because shit, Cronus and Dirk are the first proper friends you’ve ever had. Cronus spits his beer all across your garage.

“Tav, what the fuck.”

Dirk cocks an eyebrow. “Who is it?”

You’re regretting having that particular bout of word vomit because now you’re starting to feel like _real_ vomit’s gonna escape your mouth. You don’t look anyone in the eyes. “Vriska,” you murmur, and you’re surprised your head hasn’t exploded with the amount of blood that’s rushed there.

“Shit! Serket? That chick’s insane!”

Dirk hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t say anything. You feel like you’re drowning in this ridiculously tense atmosphere so you change the subject frantically, grabbing your drumsticks. “Err, so who’s up for London Calling?”

-

The subject of crushes, or anything to do with romance, doesn’t come up again. The three of you instead discuss band names and the upcoming competition, ‘Battle of the Bands’. You don’t think you should enter, but Cronus is adamant that you’re good enough. Besides, this is a small town, how many garage bands can there actually be?

The winner of Battle of the Bands will play at summer ball, apparently. You wonder if that would impress Vriska, but don’t let your mind linger on it. Neither Dirk nor Cronus has been particularly enthusiastic about your one-sided affection, and that’s enough to put you off pursuing it. Besides, with exams approaching all you can really think about is not failing your advanced literature because of your sudden interest in musical pursuits.

Practice has been sporadic, at best. Cronus still bothers you every day after school, but the two of you usually have trouble finding Dirk. Even on Thursdays you never see him in the tech labs, and asking Equius for his whereabouts only earns you a dismissive sniff.

You’re starting to worry, but Cronus’ theory is that Dirk has finally hooked up with Jane Crocker, and can’t stop having sex even to play bass with his buddies. Although you’re desperate to prove Cronus wrong, you do have the sinking feeling that Dirk is spending his time elsewhere, with different company.

When you accidentally stumble across him and Jake English behind the bleachers, you don’t say anything to Cronus. You indulge in his claims that Dirk will be back in no time, and is maybe practicing bass solo in preparation for Battle of the Bands or some shit.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Seems, um, legit.”

-

Summer Ball comes and goes, as does the end of the school year. On your last class of the drawn-out Friday—home economics— Vriska approaches you.

“Hey, Nitram,” she says, leaning on your chair and forcing you to wheel forwards somewhat.

“Oh, hey, Vriska,” you choke out, trying not to let her see your face which has probably turned a dramatic, embarrassing shade of crimson. You try and concentrate on sewing your cushion, and not the girl you fancy’s presence behind you.

“Thought you were in a band. You back out of the battle or something? Uncool.”

You shrug. “Maybe next year,” you say, but you’re not sure. Will you, Cronus and Dirk still jam next year? Will you still be friends? You don’t actually know, and the uncertainty is like a painful weight in your chest.

“Not that you could have entered anyways,” she drawls, “Your lame band doesn’t even have a name, right?”

“Um, not yet.”

“Well, let me know when you think of one. You totally want the Serket seal of approval.” You turn your head, and she winks. It makes you avert your gaze in a snap, and she ruffles your hair.

“It’s cool you kept the hairdo, but punk’s out. It’s _indie_ now.”

She leaves, and you touch your bangs gingerly. Hell, maybe Vriska’s right. It might be time for a change.


End file.
